Deepwood Weald The primroses were over.

There was no doubt about it; this strange old rabbit had certainly come from the forests of Donnelaith. For a moment she felt pity, her stomach sinking upon the realization that they had both lost their homes. In that moment, they were not so different. A swift kick to the face, however, ws enough to knock some sense into her. Three shallow cuts were etched beneath her fur, bright rivulets of blood staining the ivory whiskers upon her chin.

Muses reeled back a centimeter, bewildered by the change in pace. As the bunny struggled to right himself, the silly wolf gathered her wits, and reached forward again, jaws agape. This small food-creature was surely sent by the gods as a sign. If she could find a way to restore it's health, perhaps the gods would be kind, and reward her in turn.

Determined not to allow the opportunity to escape, she ignored the sting of her small injury, in favour of concentrating on the rabbit. She hunched over and attempted to pick the critter up like a cub, to hold him by his shoulders and nape so that he might dangle uselessly, no matter how much he would struggle.